The Hanging Tree
by vivtheviolinist
Summary: RusAme oneshot songfic based on "The Hanging Tree" from Mockingjay.


Ivan tugged at his scarf, and rubbed his palms together. He blew warm breath into his cupped hands in an attempt to prevent them from turning blue. It was cold, one of the coldest days in the history of Soviet Russia, but he could stand it. He could stand anything for Alfred.

It was almost midnight. The moon shone on the tree under which Ivan was waiting, creating an eerie pattern of shadowed branches, their twigs curled into misshapen claws, on Ivan's face. Where was he? Ivan shoved his hands in his pockets, anxiously waiting.

His fingers brushed against the two coils of coarse rope he had prepared earlier.

The minutes ticked by at an antagonistically slow pace. Still no sign of Alfred.

Panic rose in Ivan's heart, gnawing at his insides like a feral animal. His breath came out in puffy white clouds. It was past midnight. He had promised. He had. Didn't he know what would happen if he didn't come?

A dark figure, clad in snug-looking furs, was slowly shuffling towards him. The left side of Ivan's lip twitched into an involuntary, bittersweet smile.

It hastily left when Ivan saw that it was not Alfred who was approaching him.

Before Ivan could dart away, the figure grabbed a fistful of Ivan's scarf, preventing his escape.

"You thought you could hide from us, Ivan?" his boss growled into his ear. "Nothing escapes us. Nothing. The government knows all."

It was his worst nightmare come true; Ivan couldn't move, only stand there, struggling against the death grip on him, thinking nothing but thoughts of Alfred's future; a grisly future that would entirely be his fault.

"You know what we're going to do with you, don't you? _Nyet_, it would've been a much milder consequence if you hadn't been planning this little escapade. Perhaps we would've even let that American go," he taunted, adding a cruel laugh for good measure, while anticipating all the different ways he'd deal with him. He could be quite creative when it came to torture.

At these words, Ivan somehow managed to writhe out of the hold the Soviet leader had on him.

It took every bit of his will to not lunge and attack him.

Instead, Ivan scrambled up the tree, the sharp branches creating gashes in his clothing and on his numb, frozen face. He looked down at his boss below, who was seething in rage.

"Go ahead, Ivan," he spat furiously, "but know this—we'll find him. We will. And he won't be joining you anytime soon. Count on that; you know what we'll do to him, don't you?"

Ivan did know. But he also knew that his leaders constantly underestimated the American government. They'd never get Alfred. He was half glad that Alfred had broken his promise and hadn't arrived to join him.

He pulled out one of the lengths of bristly rope, and made a loop, drowning out the threats and accusations of his leader down below. The happiest moments he had shared with Alfred replayed on his eyelids as he tied the final knots, tucking the noose underneath the scarf, where he could feel its scraggly texture lap at his neck. His tears froze on his cheeks.

The other cord of rope remained in his pocket, heavy as lead.

"_Do-svidaniya_, Alfred. Goodbye."

* * *

_Kirkland's Institution for the Mentally Unstable, branch located in the United States of America, Years Later_

"Has there been any improvement on Mr. Jones?"

"Well, doctor, you know as well as I do that he's the same as always, same as since he's arrived here."

The doctor and his assistant shot a glance at their patient, who was staring longingly out at the view of the fresh-fallen snow outside his window, a book nestled on his crisscrossed lap, sitting on the cushy hospitable bed.

"No, I don't," the doctor said bluntly, "I have more than one patient, you know, and I can't afford to remember each and every detail about them. Why do you think I hired you? Remind me what's wrong."

The assistant, used to being treated with such candor, took out her notes. "Mr. Jones demonstrates almost regular behavior, except when—"

"NO, IVAN, NO, I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY, PLEASE!" screeched the patient, burying his face into his hands. "I'M SORRY! PLEASE, STOP!"

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"…Except when _that_ happens."

"And what was _that_ all about?"

"He claims to hear the voice of a Russian man in his head, singing this repeatedly, everyday, at sporadic moments," she answered, while handing the doctor a worn out slip of paper with Alfred's handwriting scrawled all over it.

"_Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where they strung up a man they say murdered three._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

_Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where the dead man called out for his love to flee._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

_Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where I told you to run so we'd both be free._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

_Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."_


End file.
